


Sun Song

by Random_Nexus



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bees, Happy Ending, Homosexuality, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mystery, Romance, Science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 22:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16128494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: Watson notices Holmes has been disappearing periodically and not saying anything about it, but isn't particularly worried until he accidentally witnesses something that is, indeed, worrisome.Warnings: Men who love men, Misunderstandings, Manly smooches, Bees.





	1. Observing Versus Seeing

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a potential submission to an anthology, but it wasn't exactly right by the time I was done and... well, it will be no surprise to anyone that it was too long, as well. That being said, the first chapter's kinda short, but there's lots more to come. Ahem. I would like to thank the lovely and talented [Tysolna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna) for epic proof-loofah© and beta-stick™ wielding. Anything still awry is all my fault. I hope you like this, dear readers. Thanks for reading.

Sherlock Holmes had been out most of the morning, having left before John Watson had even got out of bed. It was Holmes’ habit to leave a note when he wished Watson to come along after him or meet him somewhere; however, _sans_ note, Watson had a solitary breakfast with no idea where his fellow lodger had gone. He couldn't say this was unheard of, as Holmes often had a number of 'irons in the fire' at any given moment, but it had been rarer of late for him to disappear for any length of time without some clue of his purpose if not his actual direction.

Holmes returned just before noon, a spring in his step and a lightness about his lean features which bespoke distinct delight—a more ebullient soul would have no doubt been whistling a merry tune or grinning outright—and his tone was mellow as he spoke.

"Good morning, Watson. I stopped on my way up to ask Mrs. Hudson to send up tea and something in the way of a snack. She informed me you had not yet enjoyed luncheon." In one fluid motion, his hat and overcoat were flung upon the coat-rack, his walking stick thrown like a javelin into the umbrella stand from halfway across the room, and then his suit coat draped over the back of his favourite chair in trade for his tattered old dressing gown.

"I take it you’ve had a good morning," Watson commented, smiling to see his dear friend in such good spirits. "Though there's only a few minutes left of it."

"In fact I have, old boy!" Holmes confirmed jovially, taking up his old clay pipe and knocking out the dottle into the fireplace. "How have you occupied your morning? Breakfast, reading the paper, some correspondence..." pausing, Holmes crossed to where Watson sat at his writing desk, boldly lifting Watson's hand by the wrist to study his fingers closely, "and filling some more pages in your journals, I see. I would wager the Dimwitty case or the business with the Baron's bejewelled 'prayer stick'."

Watson's jaw dropped in delighted amazement. "Actually, I made notes on both cases. How could you _possibly_ know, Holmes?"

His lips twisting in an amused smirk, Holmes turned Watson's arm and hand carefully short of straining anything, showing Watson the outer edge of his own hand and wrist, including cuff. "Look at that bevy of ink spots and smears. You always blot and dribble much more when you have to keep thinking of alternatives to profanity or the sort of plain speaking which could never be published in the Strand."

Making a falsely disgusted sound, Watson shook his head. "So obvious once you've pointed it out."

"Which, as I have said, is why I do not like to explain my deductions, as a rule." Holmes made a dismissive gesture and strode back to the hearth to fetch some of his favourite shag from the toe of the Persian slipper he kept next to the coal scuttle.

"I maintain you'd have been burnt as a sorcerer a hundred years ago," Watson replied with an incipient chuckle behind his words.

Holmes laughed softly as he loaded his pipe. "I have never argued that supposition, my dear Watson, because I fear you're very probably right."

Mrs. Hudson brought up a light luncheon—light to Watson’s reckoning, but a bounteous plenty for Holmes, who rarely ate enough for the doctor’s preference—and the two spoke on a variety of subjects while they ate, but never managed to circle back to the reason Holmes had been away that morning.

Watson didn't think of it again until much later, whereupon he dismissed it as something not important enough to disturb his friend, who was in the midst of some kind of research using his microscope and a selection of half a dozen smears on various glass slides. For his part, Watson lounged upon the settee with a good book and a glass of Mrs. Hudson's excellent cider at his elbow, gazing over at Holmes for several long minutes before shaking his head and returning to his reading, a fond little smile half-hidden beneath his moustache.


	2. Practical Handbook Of Bee Culture

Just under a week later, on a rainy April afternoon, Watson was writing diligently in his journal upon a case, whilst Holmes was at his own desk across the room, next to the table bearing all his laboratory apparatus, working on some writing of his own. He had a copy of his monograph on bees—'Practical Handbook of Bee Culture'—as well as an assortment of other notes, diagrams, and sketches. It had been a while since Holmes had got caught up in his bee studies, which Watson knew was a subject dear to his friend's heart, though one he mentioned to very few, despite having published his monograph on the subject. It lifted Watson's spirit to see Holmes focussing upon something he so clearly enjoyed. 

Outside, the rain had given way to sunshine; long, golden beams coming through the clouds and into the west-facing windows, brightening the rooms.

Watson put down his pen and was taking a breath to speak when Holmes tossed his own pencil stub atop the desk and rose abruptly. In but a moment he had gathered his notes and various papers into an attaché, dropped in his monograph, and fastened the simple clasp as he spoke. "Watson, I've something to look into this afternoon. Perhaps we could meet at Simpson's for dinner later?"

"That sounds like a great idea, Holmes," Watson said sincerely, even though he was giving the man a slightly puzzled look. "Is everything all-right, old chap?"

Without looking directly at Watson, Holmes nodded, quickly setting the attaché aside long enough to don his outer wear. "Nothing to trouble yourself over." Hat on his head, one of several umbrellas plucked from the stand to hang over his arm, Holmes paused in the open door long enough to say, "Would seven o'clock do for dinner?"

"It would, indeed." Watson found himself standing, though it was plain Holmes meant to go out alone. "Are you certain—" he began to ask, but Holmes shook his head, cutting Watson's question off.

"Some research, my dear fellow, nothing more." He finally met Watson's eyes with a small smile of reassurance before turning and exiting without further ado.

Sinking slowly back into his seat, Watson felt strangely unsettled, even a little bit hurt, truth be told. What had occurred to make Holmes so nervous before he swept up his research and very nearly bolted for the door? Could it have been something as simple as his bee research? Why the urgency, then? Was Watson overreacting to feel that Holmes was deliberately keeping something from him? When it came down to it, Holmes owed Watson no accounting of his comings and goings, despite their friendship or its recent closeness. Although, Watson reasoned, perhaps it was that closeness which had confused his inner self, possibly given him an unrealistic expectation of transparency on Holmes' part. 

Sighing and slowly shaking his head, Watson resolved to pay extra close attention when he met Holmes that evening at his favourite restaurant, Simpson's-in-the-Strand, and he hoped there might be some explanation on the unknown matter forthcoming from his friend.


	3. Chance, Coincidence, And Conjecture

Not much more than an hour after Holmes departed, a letter arrived in the late afternoon post for Watson, sent from one Dr. Jackson, a medical colleague inviting him to stop by his new practice 'for a drink and a bit of bragging' if Watson could spare the time. Deciding it would be just the thing to change his mood for the better, and given that the address wasn't very far from Simpson's-in-the-Strand, Watson finished his case notes and changed for dining out. 

Jackson was a jovial fellow, and it was a good visit, leaving Watson in a pleasant mood as he made his farewells, climbing into the cab he'd hailed for the trip to Simpson's. 

Not far down the street, just short of the second intersection on, the cab slowed to a halt and stayed there for a few minutes longer than simply waiting for other vehicles usually took. 

Rapping upon the roof of the cab, Watson called out, "Is there something amiss?"

"Sorry, guv," the cabbie called back, opening a little hatch in the roof and hanging his face overhead to give Watson a gap-toothed reassuring smile. "It looks as ifa d'livery van 'as lost a wheel, but a bunch a blokes is mustering t'elp. Wouldja rather 'op out and leg it from 'ere?"

"Not particularly, no," Watson said on a sigh. "I suppose I'll wait, then." He didn't really want to walk in case the weather turned again, and his old war wound was aching in that way which he knew meant more rain was probably on its way before long.

"As ye please, guv." Tipping his bowler with a more cheery cant to his smile, the cabbie closed the hatch. Watson wasn't too worried about the time, as he knew Holmes was as likely to be late as on time—they both knew the other would wait, since delays were more common than timeliness in their lives. 

Hoping for the best, Watson sat back and looked out the window at the residences along the street. The house not quite parallel with the cab's position was a rather nice pale blue-grey, and its door was black with a silver knocker shaped like a treble clef; Watson thought Holmes would have appreciated it, had he been in the cab with him.

A little smile curved Watson's lips at the thought of what Holmes might say, or what he might deduce from that feature of the house. Thus, when that very door opened and a man who remarkably resembled the man in Watson's thoughts stepped out, it was something of a small shock. Watson made a wordless sub-vocal sound, somewhere between a grunt and a querying tone. Was that Holmes?

It had to be Holmes, Watson realised, seeing as the man wore the very same garments Watson's friend had worn upon leaving in such a hurry earlier, as well as being of Holmes' height, his shape, and his complexion. It was Holmes! 

Just on the cusp of opening the cab door and hailing his friend in glad surprise, Watson hesitated upon seeing that Holmes, hatless and carrying his light overcoat over one arm, was still speaking to someone inside the open door. In fact, Holmes was smoothing his dark hair, which Watson belatedly realised had been mussed when he stepped through the door in the first place, and leaning in close to speak to that someone in the doorway, whom Watson could not make out very well at all. Something was said which Holmes clearly found amusing, making the detective throw back his head briefly with laughter, and then nod as he quickly donned his overcoat. As soon as Holmes had the garment in place, whoever stood there in the doorway bidding him farewell handed out Holmes' hat and attaché. 

Something in the manner of Holmes' movements, his lingering smile, his relaxed posture, caused a strange apprehension to coil in Watson's breast; had Holmes the habit of wooing ladies, Watson might almost think he was parting from a sweetheart.

On the heels of this conclusion, Watson was immediately put in mind of the fact that Holmes had ever eschewed sentiment and the tenderer emotions, as well as the fairer sex, decrying them to be distractions at best, and detrimental to his mental processes at worst. He might playact attraction for a case—and actually had done—but genuine romance and love had been deliberately excised from Holmes' personal make-up, assuming such things had ever been a part of it in the first place. 

Watson had to wonder if he was misinterpreting what he was seeing. Even as he turned all this over in his mind, he watched Holmes pop his hat upon his head and casually tuck the attaché under one arm before leaning in to say something more before stepping back with the clear intention to depart. Or had he leaned in for one last quick kiss before going? 

Just when Holmes had put his foot upon the first step leading down to the walk, the theretofore hidden person inside stepped out with a call Watson heard plainly: "Sherlock, wait!" 

It was no woman, but a young man. A man who could be no older than 30, though more likely in his mid-twenties. Dark-haired and clean-shaven but for a small moustache, he was clad only in shirtsleeves, half-unbuttoned waistcoat, trousers, and a pair of gloves in his hand, this man beckoned Holmes back. Looking up and down the street briefly, Holmes took a long stride up and toward the door again, murmuring something inaudible—yet again—before taking the gloves and tucking them carelessly into his overcoat pocket. Both of them seemed amused, or perhaps just pleased, with whatever was said, as they were both smiling as Holmes stepped away again. This time he was not hailed back, though the young man in the doorway waved and said just audibly enough for Watson to catch, "Anytime, Sherlock."

"My thanks, Aubrey. Good evening," Holmes replied with a return wave as he reached the bottom of the steps and continued down the walk toward the street. His step was light, features and body relaxed, and Watson felt the cool early evening air drying out his tongue, reminding him of the fact that he had been gaping in astonishment for quite some time. 

When Holmes turned his head to glance about him—he almost never ignored his surroundings in Watson's experience, no matter the sort of mental gymnastics which he might be engaged in—Watson instinctively ducked back into the shadows of the cab's interior. Then, as Holmes was passing the cab and moving onward down the street, the cabbie shook the reins and urged the horse into motion. The traffic jam had apparently cleared, the delivery van either repaired or moved, and Watson breathed a sigh of relief as the cab took him past Holmes' easy-striding figure and onward toward Simpson's-in-the-Strand. 

Watson's thoughts were in a whirl, his mind leaping to a number of conclusions, most of which could not possibly be true; some of which were the more probable, though Watson wished he could put the other options out of his mind entirely. Instead of being relieved when the person from whom Holmes was taking his leave turned out to be male rather than female, Watson felt unsettled. He wished it could be otherwise, but his own proclivities—hidden deeply by necessity—made that fact rather more disruptive than it might have been.

Sternly putting such thoughts as far out of his head as he could manage, Watson pasted on a normal expression and spent the rest of the cab ride seeking and achieving calm. Surely Holmes would relate whatever anecdote went with the scene Watson had witnessed and it would all become clear, putting Watson's wild conjectures to rest. Along with those conjectures, Watson fully expected to also put to rest the trickle of forlorn hope such thoughts engendered deep in his heart; because, while Watson would be happily content to have Holmes as his best friend all the days of his life, he would have been happier still to have Holmes' love, as well as his friendship. 

Of course, he knew it could never be so, had known that painful truth for almost as long as he had known his heart would ever belong to Sherlock Holmes, regardless of whether the brilliant man knew the truth.


	4. Simpson’s-In-The-Strand

Watson was relieved, in a way, to have arrived at the restaurant first. Despite Holmes having been on foot last Watson saw him, Holmes might very well have caught a cab afterwards. 

Being that Simpson's was Holmes' favourite restaurant, and Watson usually in his company, the Maître d' not only recognised Watson, but enquired if Mr. Holmes would be joining him. As a result, Watson was seated at one of Holmes' two preferred spots in the restaurant—either the table by the centre window or the table in the rearmost alcove. This time it was the window spot. They had no great need for privacy, as far as Watson knew, and Holmes generally preferred to 'people watch' in such circumstances, in between conversation and food. 

Having wrestled with his 'inner demons' on the way to the restaurant, Watson felt well enough in charge of himself to face one of the most observant men in England, and possibly the world. He was used to it, for the most part, after their years of friendship, and had taken the precaution of never, ever thinking about his developing inappropriate feelings around their object. Sitting there, awaiting the man himself, Watson was rather grateful for the practice. 

It wasn't terribly long at all before Holmes arrived, wind-blown and in obvious good humour, his usually pale cheeks touched with high spots of colour from the lively spring air and what had likely been a brisk walk. His expression blossomed into a glad one as he quickly spotted Watson and he was seating himself before any of the staff had the chance, though the Maître d' was the first to come to the table to greet Holmes. 

Giving his own order without bothering to study the menu, Holmes then glanced knowingly at Watson before suggesting what the good doctor might prefer, and then adding with an easy sort of authority, "Which we would prefer to have delivered to our usual spot in the corner, which I see is unoccupied."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," agreed the Maître d' with not a jot of surprise. "Right this way. Doctor Watson, after you, please." 

In but a few moments, they were settled in their semi-secluded alcove, a happy accident borne of a quite healthy miniature tree in a pot on one side of the corner, and a decorative drape of heavily fringed fabric between the other side of the corner and the next table. Watson had no argument with Holmes' suggestion for his meal—the man often deduced Watson's preferences in such circumstances—and gave him a perhaps more subdued version of his usual amused smile. 

"I would have thought you'd prefer the window seat," Watson said conversationally once the Maître d' had gone. 

"Usually, yes," Holmes agreed without hesitation, his gaze briefly focussed here and there upon Watson's person before settling on his eyes again. "However, you seem to have something on your mind, and I thought this might be more conducive to discussing it." 

A stab of guilty trepidation went through Watson as he echoed, "Something on my mind?" It was a bid for time as he tried to think what could possibly have given him away. 

Holmes gave him a knowing expression. "Come, come, old boy," he urged quietly. "How long have we known one another?" 

"A good long while now," Watson replied and then sighed heavily. As well as he had come to know Holmes, of course Holmes had learned Watson even more thoroughly; it was simply how the man functioned, he _observed_ , whether or not he made mention of the fact. Still, Watson couldn't help asking, "What gave me away?"

A hint of a smile quirked Holmes' lips before he replied. "You get a certain look sometimes, Watson; when you wish to broach a subject, but you fear it may lead to a disagreement or some form of reproach from me. You have only rarely proceeded to actually speak on whatever matter it was at the time, but that was enough to acquaint me with that apprehensively thoughtful expression of yours."

Knowing he probably had a bit of embarrassed colour coming up in his cheeks, Watson nodded slowly as he took a deep breath, eyes on the white linen tablecloth instead of Holmes' face. "I suppose I was a fool to think I had managed to hide anything from you, eh, Holmes?"

"If it's any consolation to you, Watson," Holmes replied far more kindly than Watson might have expected, "I can't always deduce the topic of your repressed conversations." 

Chuckling softly, almost in spite of himself, Watson looked up to find Holmes' eyes were sharp as ever, but as kind as his tone—possibly more so. Words seemed to just fall out of Watson's mouth then, seemingly without stopping by his brain for permission. "I saw you on the street earlier, on my way to Simpson's, taking leave of... someone... at a house with a treble clef for a door knocker."

"Did you," murmured Holmes, his dark brows rising as he tilted his head. He seemed somewhat surprised, but also subtly wary. 

Belatedly realising the implication which might be drawn from his words, Watson hastened to say, "I wasn't _following_ you about or anything like that. I was invited to see my old colleague Jackson's new practice this afternoon, and the cab went right past your... friend's... home on the way to Simpson's, so..." Shrugging, Watson made a 'there you are' gesture with one hand.

"Ahh... I see," Holmes said slowly, nodding. "A simple matter of timing, hm?"

Watson nodded, too. "There was some sort of blockage at the crossroads—a delivery van lost a wheel, I believe—and we were at a standstill for several minutes, almost directly across the street from where you were saying your farewells." 

Whether Watson truly was that transparent to Holmes, he couldn't say, but Holmes studied him for a long few moments, long enough for the waiter to come to their table with the usual amenities in preparation for their food's arrival. They murmured the appropriate responses without really taking their attention fully off one another. 

Holmes spoke when they were alone once again. "You have noticed my recent jaunts, I see." His pause wasn't long enough for Watson to muster an appropriate response, but there was a curious intensity to Holmes' gaze as he continued. "Would you care to join me next time, Watson?" 

"If... if I may, then yes, thank you, Holmes," Watson replied in rather flustered surprise. 

"I think it will be... enlightening," Holmes told him with a hint of a secretive smile and a twinkle of something nearly merry in his eyes. "In the meantime... here is our food."

Indeed, their food was just then being brought to the table by the waiter. Everything was perfectly prepared and delicious, of course, and Holmes changed the subject to their most recently concluded case and some of the difficulties inherent in Watson's writing of it for publication, given the client and the eventual conclusion of that case. Though they hadn't really _resolved_ anything, certainly Watson's curiosity hadn't been assuaged in any way, he still felt progress had been made... of some kind. 

Holmes' mood remained a pleasant one, even jovial, and Watson's own spirits rose in reaction. He resolved to see what might come of Holmes' next trip to that house, if Watson actually was included, and—if so—whether the true identity of this mysterious 'Aubrey' would be revealed to him.


	5. Sun Song

Life went on as usual for a time. Watson managed to avoid bringing up the subject of Holmes' excursions, not wanting to seem intrusively inquisitive, but he certainly hadn't forgotten the invitation which had been extended to him. Nor had he forgotten the young man at the door with whom Holmes seemed so familiar and light-hearted, let alone the assumptions and conjecture in which Watson's mind seemed a little over-eager to indulge—much to his occasional inner turmoil.

The spring rains continued for nearly a fortnight with scarcely a break, until one morning the sitting room was suffused with a slow increase of light as the sun shone through at last. Holmes, who had been thoroughly engrossed in yet more notes on apiology, looked through the windows with a speculative expression. 

Rising from his desk, almost happy to set aside his own notes on a rather dull case from some months past, Watson went to one of the windows for a good look. "Well, well! It's good to have proof that the sun still exists. What a soggy spring we're having."

"Care for an outing while that elusive sun is shining, Watson?" Holmes asked as he closed his notebook and set aside his reference books, tucking the new notebook into his suit jacket once he'd donned it again. 

"Why not?" Watson replied cheerily, turning to tidy his own work area before buttoning his waistcoat, donning his own suit jacket, and straightening his tie. A little burst of anticipatory excitement accompanied his thought that Holmes might be following through on that invitation at last.

Soon enough they were in a cab, and Watson caught Holmes' eye with lifted brows in silent enquiry. Holmes' lips twitched near a smile without quite committing, and all he offered in response was an enigmatic, "Yes," before putting a finger to his lips and winking.

Watson chuckled, shaking his head in a mixture of wonder and amusement at his own wonder; of course Holmes knew what Watson was hoping for. Holmes smiled then, clearly enjoying Watson's response and that his friend was willing to humour him in asking no questions.

It wasn't a long trip, and soon enough they were arriving at the blue-grey house with the black door and treble clef knocker. The sun had been hidden away again during the latter half of their cab ride, but the obscuring clouds barely brought forth a thin drizzle upon them as they exited the cab. Watson opened his umbrella, holding it a little high to allow Holmes under on their way from the cab to the door, their arms pressing against one another regularly through their overcoats as they mounted the steps. 

Holmes rapped the silver treble clef knocker smartly and waited, his features set somewhere between amusement and what Watson recognised as nervousness. The door was answered before Watson could decide what that might signify.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," said a an older man in butler's livery, dark eyes set in nests of crows-feet beneath a head of silvering brown hair. His voice was gravelly and deep, but his words clear and easy enough to understand. "Master Aubrey has instructed that our door always be open to you, sir."

"How kind, Cabot. Is he in?" Holmes asked as the butler stepped back to allow them inside.

"Alas, Master Aubrey has not come down as yet, Mr. Holmes." Cabot took their outerwear and the umbrella as he continued. "Do you require him urgently, sir?" 

"No, Cabot, please don't disturb him," Holmes refused with a shake of his head. "I've brought my dear friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson, to see the project on which Aubrey and I have been working."

"A pleasure, Doctor Watson. Welcome," Cabot said with a deep nod and a small smile. 

Watson nodded, murmuring his thanks. 

Holmes spoke briskly. "We shall go on through, Cabot. Alert Aubrey that we're here whenever he wakes, would you?" 

"Very good, Mr. Holmes. Shall I bring some tea?" Cabot asked. 

"Not now, thank you. Wait until Aubrey makes an appearance," Holmes replied as he took Watson's arm and started to lead him away. "Until then we'll be in the conservatory."

Cabot nodded graciously. "I trust you know your way by now, Mr. Holmes. Ring if you require anything, sir." 

While Cabot took himself in the other direction, Holmes led Watson through the rooms of what seemed a quite well-appointed home, with the sort of decorations and finer touches common to the 'London townhouse' kept by someone with a far larger estate in the country somewhere. However, Watson had little time to notice anything more specific, as Holmes was setting a rather vigorous pace with his longer legs.

At long last, Holmes led them through a door bracketed by bookshelves into a small room arranged much like a mud-room. Benches marked opposing walls to the left and right, and rows of coat-hooks on sturdy wooden supports bracketed the door on the inside and above the benches. A glass-paned door directly opposite the door through which they had come was misted over a bit, but the view on the other side seemed made up almost wholly of varied greens with a few random splashes of colour. 

"Oh, I see..." Watson breathed in enlightenment as he recognised several heavy canvas garments with matching gloves and hoods after studying the blurred view through the other door. Holmes was already smiling and nodding as Watson said, "That's why you've been dredging up all your apiology books."

"Come, old boy, let me show you." Holmes selected one of the protective overalls, handing it to Watson. "You know how it's done."

Watson did, indeed, know how to don one of the 'beekeeping suits' as he called them, much to Holmes' mock exasperation. Holmes had taken him along a few times in the past to meet some of his apiological colleagues and see their work.

In a handful of minutes, they were both kitted out, Holmes helping Watson with the loose hood of canvas and dense netting. Without further wasted words, the detective-cum-apiology enthusiast led his friend into the conservatory.

Lush plants enjoyed the shelter of the glass-walled garden attached to the rear of the main house. Some of the flora Watson recognised straight away, many he didn't, and more than half of the flowering plants were blooming hardily, some others just budding, and a few had fading blossoms having fallen or about to fall from their branches. Several trees spread their boughs against the upper portions of the high walls and glass ceiling, and vines wound around the perimeter of the room in an interlocked series of natural knots and braids. 

"This is wonderful!" Watson exclaimed in sincere delight, his voice only slightly muffled by the hood. 

Holmes led him along a patterned brick walkway through the pots and flower boxes of varying heights, and Watson heard the telltale hum before noticing a single bee. Around the corner of an organic wall of green, the walkway opened out to a rounded area with an arc of beehives—the wooden box type for the most part, save for a more 'traditional' shaped hive at the centre of the arc— and several folding stools, chairs, and a pair of stone benches awaiting use to both sides of the group of hives.

Bees buzzed about the area, carrying on with their busy little tasks as was their wont, and a faint breeze drew Watson's gaze to several half-open transom windows high on the wall. It was raining again, though lightly, and the sun was only a thin veil of clouds away from bursting through once more. 

"We've been continuing an experiment started by Aubrey's father," Holmes said without preamble, leading Watson closer to the hives. Bees swirled around him, seemingly unperturbed, perhaps curious, who could say? They didn't bother him, though one or two would alight upon his hood or shoulders for a moment or two before flying off again, almost the entire time he was nearby. "He managed to bring a hive of Russian bees here to England, spending years guiding their hybridisation with the most common and hardiest strains of our own honey bees."

"Amazing," murmured Watson, watching Holmes as he held out a hand to intercept one of the bees, which lit upon his gloved palm and rambled slowly across to his fingers, as if somehow understanding its purpose as an example. It was easier to then look at the bee, as Holmes' face was mostly obscured by the netting of his hood with his head turned to the side to watch the tiny creature. 

"Aside from a greater resistance to cold, the Russian bee is also resistant to various kinds of parasitic mites, which greatly affects brooding and honey production." Holmes turned his gloved hand as the bee reached the tip of his middle finger, and the insect fell a few inches before buzzing off and away. "Aubrey's father passed away last year and he left rather poor notes." 

"Ah," was all Watson managed to say. He found himself nodding slowly with lips pressed together firmly. Several questions wanted to fling themselves out of his mouth, but... well, he was not precisely certain he actually wanted all the answers. 

Holmes turned toward Watson, though his face was difficult to read through the mesh of the hood, yet he watched Watson for a long moment before speaking further. "Aubrey has been very dedicated to carrying on his father's research, but when he finally realised he was out of his depth, he contacted me for advice. I was quite interested in what Aubrey's father had been doing, so I was happy enough to lend my expertise to the cause."

"Kind of you, I'm sure." Lifting his face to watch the bees meandering their way through the greenery nearer the upper reaches of the conservatory, Watson wished he had shown more enthusiasm for Holmes' fascination with bees.

"Well, perhaps," Holmes allowed off-handedly. "It turned out that, while studying and caring for these hives, I believe I have discovered something of my very own." Watson returned his full attention to Holmes with a little sub-vocal sound of curiosity. Holmes took it, rightly, as encouragement to go on. "I wanted to wait, to be certain, but I have been hoping to share it with you, Watson." Holmes put one gloved hand to Watson's forearm, grasping it firmly. "As my dearest friend, I know I can trust in your discretion."

"Of course you can, Holmes," Watson assured him, closer now, and able to see Holmes' face somewhat better. There was something eager and warm in those grey eyes, as well as a certain hint of softness in Holmes' expression. 

Oh. Oh, no. He was going to tell Watson about whatever it was between himself and Aubrey. Watson's chest ached as if he had been holding his breath too long, a twist of cold tension taking hold of his stomach. Here was where he was going to lose that last fragile hope, and he must support his dearest friend while his own heart shrivelled and broke. 

"Come, sit with me, old boy," Holmes urged, leading Watson to one of the small stone benches across from the hives, barely large enough for two grown men. "I wish to tell you—"

Whatever Holmes had been about to say was interrupted by another voice behind he and Watson, a pleasant voice which was slightly familiar. "Sherlock! I'm sorry not to have been available when you arrived." 

Aubrey. The handsome young man Watson saw bidding Holmes farewell. Dark haired, blue-eyed, and possibly younger than Watson had originally thought, but trim and well-formed in a deep blue dressing gown over a collarless shirt and grey trousers. He wore leather loafers just a step away from being slippers, and—quite notably—no protective suit at all.

"I'm hardly one to complain," said Holmes cheerily. "Since I am not fond of early mornings if I don't have any good reason to see them. Come," Holmes beckoned the young man closer. "Aubrey Vernet, you must meet my good friend, Doctor John Watson." Watson rose politely.

"Not the one who writes such exciting stories about you?" Aubrey was grinning, and looking even more charming in the process, as he came around and held out a hand to Watson. "My God, man, I can hardly credit that I am finally meeting you!"

"You enjoy the stories, then?" Watson clung to the one thing he felt safe addressing, while allowing Aubrey to pump his hand excitedly.

"Ever so much!" Aubrey winked at Holmes, still grinning enormously. "That, and Sherlock is always speaking of you."

"Aubrey!" Holmes's frown had a bit less power behind the mesh of his hood, but his tone held a hint of a bite in it. "Perhaps you should go finish dressing properly?"

Looking from Holmes to Watson and back, Aubrey's dark brows rose high; the next moment he seemed to have a sudden thought and very nearly sniggered, but then put a finger to his lips with almost pantomime over-acting. "Yes, of course. How remiss of me. Do excuse me, Doctor Watson." Aubrey shot Holmes a smirking little smile and headed for the door, waving a wayward bee away from his face as he went. Without another word, he was gone. 

With a short sigh, Holmes glanced upward through the windows and tugged Watson down onto the bench once more. "As I was saying—"

Watson gasped suddenly, unintentionally interrupting Holmes as he almost whispered, "Vernet?"

Rolling his eyes before nodding, Holmes looked torn between exasperated and amused. "Yes, my dear Watson, Aubrey is my _cousin_. His father was my mother's brother, Alain." 

"Then... yes. Your cousin." It was a supreme effort of will to mind his words, so extreme was Watson's relief in discovering the true nature of the connexion between Holmes and Aubrey.

For some reason, Holmes' voice grew gentle, one of his gloved hands settling lightly atop Watson's where it rested upon his thigh. "Now, my good man, will you put off any other questions for just a little while longer? I don't want to miss this opportunity."

Clearing his throat, glad of the layer of mesh and canvas obscuring his expression a bit, Watson nodded while blinking an unexpected sting from his eyes. Cousin! From the Vernet side of Holmes' family. He gestured with his free hand, not about to disrupt the welcome weight of Holmes' hand upon his own—accidental or not, he would have it however long it lasted—and hoped the hoarseness in his voice wasn't all that noticeable. "Carry on, of course, my dear Holmes."

"Thank you." Holmes shifted slightly, as if to settle himself more solidly, and squeezed Watson's hand once. "Close your eyes and listen."

Obediently, even a little bit giddily—relief and a resurgence of hope were a better tonic than anything that could be got out of a bottle or teapot—Watson closed his eyes and listened. His own breathing, as well as the very quiet sound of Holmes' were foremost in his attention, then the faint sound of distant wheels and general street noise, and the barely-there whisper of a breeze through the high windows, until... a low hum, so familiar he had apparently tuned it out, but now blossoming into his awareness once again. Quiet, soothing in a way he couldn't have described, the buzzing of what must be hundreds and hundreds of bees in the hives and moving amongst the plants brought a tiny smile to Watson's face. In the softest breath of a whisper, he said, "I hear it." He had no doubt it was the sound of the bees Holmes wanted him to attend.

"Keep listening," Holmes instructed in an equally small voice, his hand not leaving its place atop Watson's, but just resting there, not squeezing or caressing. "Note the tone and volume as best you can."

Watson nodded, having no idea if Holmes' eyes were open or closed, but he kept his own closed, enjoying the moment in more than the obvious way. This was an almost unprecedented closeness, even with the separation of their gloves and overalls, and Watson found it distracting, but pleasantly so. Beyond his eyelids, the light increased, and Watson supposed it must be the sun breaking through the clouds again. After a few more minutes, he opened his mouth to whisper a question, but Holmes tightened his fingers upon Watson's hand.

"Hsst! Listen..." Holmes whispered leadingly.

Watson tried, though he didn't know if he would hear whatever it was Holmes expected, and for a few breaths nothing seemed different, but then he noticed the hum of the bees seemed louder. Once he'd had the thought, he focussed his attention upon that thrumming murmur of sound and he thought... perhaps... yes, the sound had changed. "The bees... have they grown louder?" he breathed uncertainly, and, on the heels of his own question, suddenly realised something else: "The pitch has changed, hasn't it? It's higher."

"Yes!" Holmes exclaimed in a restrained whisper which clearly wanted to be a shout. "Almost half an octave higher and, indeed, louder." His grip was just short of painful for another moment or two, and then he shook Watson's hand in clear excitement. "I wanted you to hear it, to witness it." 

"It's... is it the sun coming out, then?" Watson asked, sharing Holmes' excitement at the intriguing phenomenon, and finally opening his eyes to find Holmes was looking at him, not the bees or their hives. His face was alight with excited joy, with triumph, and his eyes fairly sparkled with life, even through the mesh obscuring his face.

"Yes. Especially after a protracted rainy period." Holmes reached up with his free hand to tug off the hood, leaving his usually well-smoothed dark hair mussed. "They have consistently performed their little sun song for months now, and though I will have to test my observations on other hives, I feel confident I have found something no one has documented officially." 

"Amazing, Holmes!" Watson enthused smilingly. "Sun song, eh?" He thought it surprisingly whimsical for Holmes, who was usually as clinical as possible in these things. 

His friend gave him a barely-believable frown of chastisement for what he obviously knew to be a bit of teasing, but it was gone in an instant. His expression then shifted to a more sombre cast, his eyes intent, and yet it was a gentle sombreness as he spoke in a similar voice. “I had originally planned to share this with you after all was proven and properly documented. However, when you spoke at Simpson’s of seeing me taking leave of Aubrey, it appeared to me you had misunderstood what exactly you were witnessing. I deemed it prudent to show you there was… well, to show you the truth of the matter.” 

Opening his mouth to speak, Watson ended up simply nodding; because, of course Holmes had read him more fully than he’d wished, but that may well have been a good thing, if he wasn’t reading the moment entirely wrongly. 

Holmes nodded in return, a brief quirk of a smile pulling at his lips before he grew serious again. “If I may?” he asked, tugging his glove off by aid of his teeth before dropping it in his lap and reaching up toward Watson’s hood. Again, Watson only nodded. He had no fear of a bee sting, he was not at all allergic and he knew they wouldn’t bother him if he didn’t bother them. Carefully removing the hood, Holmes’ gaze went up to Watson’s head and his lips pulled into another little smile. “Always inconvenient, these hoods,” he murmured, long fingers deftly combing Watson’s hair back into place, his touch light as the landing of one of the bees before he lowered his hand with what Watson thought might possibly be reluctance. 

“Thank you,” Watson said, his voice barely a whisper, and he dared to rid himself of one glove in similar fashion, to then turn toward his friend and reach up to smooth Holmes’ hair in kind. The black strands were straight and fine, the slight hint of pomade Holmes had likely not renewed that morning keeping them from clinging more stubbornly to Watson’s fingers. In a burst of bravery and wild optimism, Watson skimmed the backs of his fingers ever so briefly along the side of Holmes’ face, and then let his hand come to rest atop Holmes’ other still-gloved hand, which had not left Watson’s own upon his thigh. “I am glad to know Aubrey is your cousin.”

Swallowing audibly, Holmes’ eyes moved rapidly, as if he were trying to see every tiny point of interest on Watson’s face, and then his gaze stopped upon Watson’s own, holding it. “Watson… _John_ … I have been formulating a theory. Please forgive me if I am in error, but…” Trailing off, sounding the smallest bit out of breath, Holmes reached up to rest the tips of his first three fingers against Watson’s jaw, his thumb touching upon the slight cleft in Watson’s chin. Watson’s breath caught in his throat as Holmes almost whispered, “There comes a time when a theory must be given up or tested.”

Watson thought his heart would beat its way out of his chest as soon as Holmes leaned closer; if he had not already guessed what Holmes meant to do, he would have had no doubt the moment Holmes’ lips touched his own so very gently. The breath he’d held escaped on a soft sound that was not exactly a moan, nor really a sigh, but Holmes echoed it an instant later as his gloved fingers burrowed under Watson’s and gripped tightly. 

Bringing his own ungloved hand up to cup Holmes’ lean cheek, Watson opened eyes he had no memory of closing to find a look of growing wonder and delight upon Holmes’ face; it could not have been much brighter than the joy which surely must have shown plainly upon Watson’s own features. “Does this prove your theory… Sherlock?” 

Holmes tilted his head, his wonderful smile pulling mischievously askew. “Surely by now you know a proper test must be repeatable to truly prove the theory?” 

“Of course,” Watson replied, unable to stop grinning. “Then, by all means, let us prove your theory conclusively.” 

Watson heard as well as felt Holmes’ soft chuckle as their lips met again, gloves distractedly tugged away to allow hands to touch and twine, their whisper-quiet sighs blending with the sweet hum of the bees’ sun song surrounding them.


End file.
